


The Groom's Tale

by TheMalhamBird



Category: 13th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: A look at how the unnamed Groom ends up paying a visit to the deposed King at Pontefract- and why he would want to in the first place
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	The Groom's Tale

“You wish…to visit…my cousin?”

Wat cringes before the King, ducking his head even lower than it already is and wringing his cap so tightly that his knuckles go white. “’f it’s all the same, your worship,” he mumbles, and dares not look up. The people claim Henry Bolingbroke as theirs- the hero of the common folk against the tyrant bastard Richard, which only goes to show, Wat thinks, that people in general don’t know what they’re talking about. Not that Richard was any great saint, but he wouldn’t have kept Wat kneeling like this, for one. Not with his bad leg that he always asked after, and sent his doctor down to look at from time to time-

“Why?” The King demands, and Wat starts. 

“Well for…” he doesn’t know. Or rather, he does know, but he doesn’t know how to explain, how to make him understand, this King who doesn’t stick around to feed Barbary apples and kiss his nose and tell him he’s a good horse, the best horse… 

Wat taught him to ride his first horse. 

“Oh, it hardly matters, if you wish to go, go,” The King says suddenly, and Wat looks up suddenly.

“You mean it?”

“I’ll see to it. It hardly matters, now,” King Henry seems to say the last part to himself, and looks at something past Wat, and Wat shivers, his old bones aching with sudden cold. 

They’re cousins, Henry and Richard. They share the same look when they’re thinking of something unpleasant. King Richard used to wear that face- staring at nothing, jaw tight and cheekbones suddenly seeming sharper than usual- moments before swinging himself up on to the nearest horse and riding it till man and beast were both pushing exhaustion and some poor defenceless hart rode likewise in to the ground. Still it’s natural, Wat supposes, to find it unpleasant to think upon your kin in prison, even if you’re the one that put him there- perhaps then especially. Christ knows the number of times Wat knocked the stuffing out his brothers for being arses when they were all younger and winced at their bruises afterwards. 

“Go to Pontefract,” King Henry repeats distantly. “Perhaps you will be of some comfort to Richard’s soul.”

“Yes, your worship, thank you, your worship.” Wat doesn’t know much about souls; he isn’t a priest. But he knows Richard, knows what makes the lad smile. 

When he sees his poor King in his prison cell, Wat will paint him such pictures of Barbary as to make it seem like he rides him again. 


End file.
